It won't surprise you to learn that I’m a “live to eat” kind of a gal. No sooner do I finish a meal then, chances are, I’m thinking ahead to the next repast. Some people count sheep when they can’t sleep; I plan my next food foray.
People who don’t care for food perplex me. I happen to be married to one of those and it took me years to accept that, no matter how many weird and wonderful things I tried to tempt him with, Don prefers plain food.
To his credit, he will at least try things (in an early victory, I managed to convert him to olives) but give him steak, chips and peas over foreign muck any day.
As much as it pains me to admit it, I’ve recently joined the plain food brigade.
I’ve felt unwell all week, which probably came about because I've had one or other of my kids home sick from school for most of the past fortnight. It might not actually be their fault because my lurgey seems different to theirs, but I’m going to blame them anyway.
Even though I haven’t been bedridden beyond needing to lie down from time to time, I’ve been off my food. Weird and wonderful food holds no appeal. Worse still, any kind of food fails to interest me in the least.
I've managed to work up an appetite a few times, only to feel over-full almost the instant I started eating. Cooking for the family has been a pain and my minimal efforts have been plain in the extreme (“Yay!” say Don and Rory).
My love of weird and wonderful food helps to define who I am, and finding I don’t give a damn is exasperating, boring and dislocating.
I miss the adventurous, gluttonous, food-obsessed Anna and I hope she comes back soon!
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